


my tired soul on fire

by PhoenixFalls



Category: My Dearly Beloved Detective, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6859450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I ached for everything we had been to each other, everything we could have been together. For every case we would not get to solve together; for all the useful skills I would not get to teach her; for every quiet evening in we would no longer spend chatting over our books or our mending.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	my tired soul on fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Garonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/gifts).



> For anyone who has not encountered this adaptation before, it's a Russian movie in which Sherlock Holmes was a fictional detective, but he was so popular that the owners of 221 Baker Street were forced to turn the property into a working detective agency to handle all the people who came there looking for help. They hired two women -- Shirley Holmes and Jane Watson -- to staff it. The movie is available in its entirety on YouTube, complete with English captions, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vphyWrz4Vv4).
> 
> Also posted on [LiveJournal](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/406905.html)

  
_**Now**_  


Mr. Green’s impassivity has taken on a rather forced air by the time I call a halt to my day’s shooting practice. I have not yet missed the target entirely, but my last three shots have each drifted closer to the edge. Thankfully, I am missing to the left, rather than to the right near Mr. Green’s head.

He raises an eyebrow as I begin to unload the revolver.

“You are very inaccurate today, Miss Holmes.”

My hand clenches around the box of bullets, spilling them out onto the floor. I hear Jane’s scoffed “No, no” when I posed the question to her, but I cannot bring myself to answer Mr. Green in the same careless way. For all that I can spin whatever story I need in service of a case, Jane was ever-readier with the easy social lie than I.

He speaks again.

“Perhaps if you returned to your usual weapon. . .”

“No.”

The flat denial lies between us for a moment, then I speak again. “That will be all, Mr. Green.”

_**Then**_

It was only as I fastened the high collar that I felt my character for the night settle over me.

I was not unaccustomed to trousers; though untailored and simply belted, my gi was similar enough that masculine evening dress was not inherently foreign. But as the collar closed stiffly around my throat I felt a paradoxical sense of freedom; as I tied my bow tie and donned my coat I expanded to fill a greater volume of space than I ever did in the gi or in my usual skirts.

When I had first taught myself to pass for a man I had felt cartoonish, exaggerated beyond all reason. But over the years the disguise had become worn in, as comfortable to wear as a second skin. I looked forward to these rare opportunities. Occasionally, when my skirts grew heavy and my shoulders tight, I even manufactured them.

* * *

Jane, apparently, did not experience that same sense of freedom. 

* * *

The instant we were behind closed doors Jane pulled her tie loose, ripped her collar out of its stud. She got caught trying to detach her watch chain and remove her waistcoat at the same time, and I quickly hung her jacket and top hat on the coat stand so I could step forward to help. I gripped her hands tightly until they stilled, then gently untangled her.

Jane was trembling.

“You cannot take that back, Jane.”

That got the fire back in her eyes.

“Good. I don’t want to take it back. I will be happy to be Mrs. Robbie Summers.”

“Mrs. Robbie Summers cannot shoot a pistol, cannot box with Mr. Simonoff.”

“That’s fine. My hands have grown too rough as it is.”

“Mrs. Robbie Summers cannot investigate crimes, cannot help the people who come looking here.”

“There are crimes and people to help everywhere—“

“Mrs. Robbie Summers cannot be assistant to Detective Shirley Holmes.”

Jane’s breath caught, her eyes filled with tears.

I cupped her face in my hands. “Mrs. Robbie Summers cannot do this any longer.” And then I kissed her.

She opened for me like a blossom, some sweet fresh daisy turning to the sun; her lips tasted of salt as her shuttered eyelids spilled tears down her cheeks. I brushed them away with my thumbs, but more followed.

She pressed her forehead to mine, sniffing back a sob. “Shirley, what have I done?”

I had no answer for her.

I set my hands to work continuing the process of undressing her, each button undone revealing more skin. She was trembling still, chest rising and falling in quick, hitched breaths. I dropped my head to lay gentle kisses on her collarbones, at the base of her throat.

“I’m sorry, Shirley. I’m so sorry.”

She began to cry in earnest and I hushed her, stroking her long hair soothingly even as I took her mouth in another, fiercer, kiss.

Her lips turned urgent, then her hands; she pulled my tie from around my neck and worked her fingers into my hair, finding the pins and pulling them free to scatter on the ground. My wig fell behind me, unheeded.

We shed our clothing rapidly after that. Jane pulled me into her bedroom and tumbled me down onto her bed; her false moustache tickled against my breast and I arched up towards it, seeking the rough scrape of foreign hair on delicate flesh.

Jane flinched back, hands flying to her face to tug it off, but the spirit gum held fast. So she set her jaw and ran her mouth resolutely down my sternum and ribcage, alternating each soft wet kiss with a deliberate bristled drag of her hirsute upper lip.

If this was to be our last night together, I had no desire to be a passive recipient of Jane’s attentions. I pushed myself upright and pulled Jane onto my lap, then I set out to drown my senses in every inch of her.

The particular shade and fineness of her blonde hair. The wrinkle just starting to form between her eyebrows; the exact length of her nose. The very slight unevenness of her front two teeth; the depth of the dimple in her left cheek that appeared only when she was truly delighted.

I traced the freckles scattered across her shoulders with the tip of my tongue, mapping musical scores onto her skin. I breathed in all her secret places: under her arms, between her breasts, between her legs as I spread her underneath me. I drank her down, licked and lapped and sucked the slick arousal at her core until she cried out her paroxysm to the heavens above.

I ached, not for my own completion, but for everything we had been to each other, everything we could have been together. For every case we would not get to solve together; for all the useful skills I would not get to teach her; for every quiet evening in we would no longer spend chatting over our books or our mending.

I buried a sob in the top of Jane’s thigh.

Jane’s strong hands pulled my head, drew me up to nuzzle into her throat. Jane was crying again too, tears streaming down her face and into her hair, chest shuddering with choked breaths.

“Shirley—Shirley—“

I wrapped my arms tight around her waist and dug my face deeper into the crook of her neck. Eventually, we slept.

* * *

I did not attend the wedding. Jane did not ask me to.

_**Now**_

When Mr. Green’s footsteps have faded entirely, I finish unloading the revolver and carefully pack the ammunition away. With the setting of the sun the shooting gallery has filled with shadows, and I take my cleaning supplies into the study.

The last traces of Jane on the weapon are gone – fingerprints, oils from her skin, now all wiped clean and overlaid with my own. But there is nothing else of Jane’s left in the flat, and I am loathe to cleanse it further. I am not usually given to sentimentality, but I nonetheless pour myself a glass of scotch whisky (another rare indulgence) and simply sit with the revolver for a while.

Eventually, I finish my drink and begin taking the weapon apart.

Once cleaned and reassembled, still unloaded, I am overcome again; I cannot stop myself from rubbing the length of the barrel against my cheek. I summon up the echo of Jane’s laugh as she once did the same. The echo rings in my ears and I close my eyes, wishing, for the first time, for my sometimes-disguise to be real.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to sanguinity for the beta and dancesontrains for the Brit-pick; they were both incredibly gracious despite my tremendous tardiness in actually delivering a draft. Title from the Headstones' "farawayfromhere," which was (bizarrely) exactly the right accompaniment for this fic.


End file.
